


The worst of days

by Avidfangirlforlife



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 17:59:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avidfangirlforlife/pseuds/Avidfangirlforlife
Summary: A modern AU, in which Patsy has a bad day and is half in love with her roommate.





	The worst of days

Patsy had always, for as long as she had been herself, had always been a practical sort of person. Her world for as long as she could remember had been one of order and punctuality and order. And so, whenever she found herself having a bad day, she would tell herself that it was all down to statistics. There were, after all, three hundred and sixty-five days in a year. 

Over the years she had honed a way of rating days. If one rather a day on a scale of one to six, the year split up rather wonderfully into sectors. When such a scale was considered it was probable, if one really thought about it, it was likely that one would have at least one or two bad days a week.

Patsy liked to think that she was a very logical person. But still, even by her standards, some days were off the scale. Some days just always seemed to go from bad to worse. If there was one thing in the world that Patsy detested, it was drama of any sort. She lived for a quiet life, thank you very much. Life should be kept simple and easy.

She lived up to her name, being patient almost to a fault. However, she had to admit to herself that some days tested her. Some days made her want to scream in frustration and annoyance and kick up a ruddy big fuss. She would be damned if today hadn’t been one of those days. On days like today the only logical course of action was that deemed illogical by her on an ordinary day.

Therefore, she allowed herself an internal scream as she began a practice she was very well acquainted with. She counted down from ten backwards in her head, reminding herself to take deep breaths as she did so. She found herself thinking of a parent counting down whilst a child had a tantrum. It was a method Patsy had always found very effective when dealing with less than desirable circumstances.

If she had been asked to, she would have found it impossible to say when her day had started to go wrong. In fact, there was no precise moment to pinpoint or blame. It had been the sort of day where one bad thing had blended into another. For one thing, her day had started terribly. Her three alarms, all with battery back-ups, had either not gone off or she had slept through them.

They had failed to rouse her and so she had been late. That in itself had been enough reason for her to have gotten out of the wrong side of the bed (tardiness was almost as bad as a lack of personal hygiene in her books).

Then her roommate (whom she refused to admit she was half in love with) had openly flirted with her. Which had been a shining moment in her shitty day, but it had caused her to spill orange juice down her scrubs in her half-asleep state. And then, of course, her car had broken down. Something to do with the radiator overheating. 

Of course, this had led to her being more than an hour late for work. In turn, she had been formally reprimanded for this. Even though she had phoned in to explain and found the line busy. That was neither here nor there.

As if all of this had not accumulated to being bad enough, one patient had vomited on her new shoes and another had tried to get on a hand-to-chest basis with her. The amount of times that in itself had happened during her nursing career was something she would never understand. Scrubs could not be more unflattering if they were trying, she may as well have been wearing a sack.

Her day had continued to get worse, her break had been cut in half (wonderful in itself) and the cafeteria had been out of vegetarian options. She had stayed on at the hospital for an extra hour, which had first turned into two and then stretched into three. 

And then finally, after thirteen of the most excruciating hours of her entire existence, she had left work. Only to find that, upon thinking that her day could not possibly get worse, the only bus on her route had been delayed by more than half an hour due to roadworks. To say that she had been having the day from hell, the worst one in her memory, would have been an understatement of the grandest proportions. It was enough to try even her almost endless reserves of patience.

Her day had put her in the worst possible mood and she found that logic could not drag her out of it. By the time she reached her apartment building all she had wanted to do was collapse into bed. She also found herself hoping that Delia was home, so that she could bemoan her awful day.

However, upon unlocking and opening the front door, she had come across a flat in complete and utter disarray. The flat which she had detail cleaned from top to bottom on her day off, a mere two days before. So before venturing any further, she found herself pressed against the front door, eyes closed and countdown on the go. Anything to try and allay her ever darkening mood.

When she had her mood as tightly in hand as she could manage (she was, after all, a fully functioning member of society) she moved down the hall towards the living room. Before she had even reached the doorway, she could hear the soft sounds of Delia’s laugh. She refused to admit to herself the way it temporarily brightened her mood, because it certainly didn’t mean anything. Her momentarily raised mood was sent crashing down once again when she moved around the slightly ajar door.

Sat next to Delia, far too close for comfort, was a rather unpleasant excuse of a man. A man who just so happened to be round far too often for her liking. In her humble opinion, if he never visited again it would be far too soon. Purposefully, she makes herself forget his name every time he leaves, because he really was not worth the time of day. She doesn’t want to know who is he, or anything about him at all.

Especially not when he spends his days trying to get into Delia’s pants. Not that Patsy is jealous or anything. The sight of him, existing in hers and Delia’s shared space, darkens her mood so quickly it should be laughable. It’s not, of course. She finds herself about five seconds away from either committing a murder or crying hysterically.

She must have a face like thunder, dark and furious. As soon as Delia sees her, the laughter catches in her throat and dies there. The boy, as Patsy likes to think of him (if she has to think of him at all), glances at her. The smirk on his face seems to elicit a challenge. She tries to kid both herself and Delia that when she glares back at him, she gains no satisfaction from the way he squirms uncomfortably   
in his seat.

Without speaking, she heads straight through into the kitchen, trying her utmost to blot out the barely there inch of space between them. The more she tries not to think about it, the further imprinted on the back of her eyelids it becomes. Which is ridiculous of course, because it really is none of her business. It really isn’t her concern. Besides it isn’t like they were touching. Not when she came in, at any rate. And at any rate, she isn’t jealous.

At least, that’s what she tells herself trying her utmost to alleviate some of her awful mood, she bangs around in the kitchen whilst finding everything she needs to make toast. She knows that it isn’t the most sophisticated of meals, but fuck it. All she wants to do is fall into bed and forget that this day ever happened.

Patsy finds herself so engrossed in making a racket that she doesn’t notice the man-boy excusing himself. She doesn’t notice Delia entering the kitchen. She doesn’t notice Delia stopping the cupboard from slamming shut. She doesn’t notice anything at all, until Delia turns her around, a knowing smile plastered across her pretty face.

“What’s up Pats?” Genuine concern lights up her eyes, although the smirk doesn’t budge. 

Patsy doesn’t respond but finds herself trying not to think about how quickly her mood is lightening. There is no way she should let her roommate have such a massive effect on her mood. She shouldn’t be able to shift her whole day in minutes. She shouldn’t be able to, and yet she has. It is so illogical that it has Patsy confused beyond anything else. Sometimes the thought of it can leave her head spinning for days.

Delia’s hand comes to rest on her arm, eyes so soft and warm that she feels it. “Pats, what is it? Shane left, so I’m all yours. Tell me what’s wrong, please?”

Patsy can feel her mood darkening considerably at the mention of him. He somehow manages to creep in, a dark spot against her brightening mood. She still refuses to acknowledge him though, because it gives her a childish pleasure. It doesn’t hurt anyone else after all. Still, she shakes her head.

A pop echoes around the quiet kitchen. Ah, saved by the toaster. She turns her back on the other woman, making sure the butter is evenly spread across the bread. Trying her best not to think of the frown that she knows is painted across Delia’s face, she ignores the warmth radiating from the woman behind her. Somehow, she finds herself feeling increasingly guilty.

Finally, after standing and watching all of the butter melt into her toast, she figures she can’t ignore her roommate forever. Toast in hand, she faces the other woman. Taking a massive bite, she mumbles around it, “Nothing’s wrong, I’ve just had a ghastly day.” 

Not exactly ladylike, granted, but Patsy tries her best to ignore the etiquette lessons that were drilled into her at finishing school. After all, she isn’t a young lady, or a socialite. And this is just Delia. So etiquette be damned. Delia is glaring at her, stood mere inches away, arms crossed and foot tapping. Patsy tries her utmost to not think of it as endearing, because such things are only going to encourage her to fall further in love with the other woman. So, she stands leaning against the counter, munching on her toast, trying not to stare.

“And pray tell Pats, what exactly made it so ghastly?” Patsy tries her utmost not to let her lips quirk up. Delia really is quite adorable with her lilting Pembrokeshire accent. Her pronunciation of ghastly sets to brighten her day further.

“Everything Deels.” She finds herself trying to ignore the fact that, before she saw Him in her house, sat as though he owned the place, she was ready to tell Delia every little detail of her day. It is an illogical feeling and that isn’t something she likes. She shouldn’t care about the other woman in the way that she does. But she can’t deny it to herself any longer.

She has to remind herself that she isn’t jealous of him. It’s a mantra that she has to repeat to herself, whenever he comes into her head. She isn’t jealous of him. Her and Delia are just friends. They will always be just friends. Despite what she may wish. Despite the casual flirting she is pretty certain that Delia is very, very straight.

Delia rolls her eyes, sarcastic until the last. “Anything specific?”

There is something in her voice that surprises Patsy. Something knowing. When Patsy just shakes her head, unwilling to admit what has bothered her the most, the amusement is plain on Delia’s face. For a second everything seems frozen around them, noises from outside the kitchen window become muted. All Patsy can hear is the sounds of them both breathing.

And then Delia does the last thing that Patsy expects of her. She leans in towards Patsy, arms coming to rest on the counter top on either side. Then, as though this were a situation occurring in her dreams, and not in reality, Delia fully leans in.

She leans in and then her lips are on Patsy’s, and it is better than Patsy has ever imagined. The kiss lasts for less than a second, and it makes her breath catch in her throat. Her eyes close of their own accord, and she could almost swear to it being a dream.

Then, of course (like all good things), it comes to an end. Delia pulls away. She would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit to audibly whimpering. When her eyes open, she finds herself shuddering at the cocky smirk painted across Delia’s face. It does something to her that she doesn’t want to analyse too closely.

Slowly, her roommate starts to pull away, before leaning back in so that she can deliver her parting shot directly into Patsy’s ear. Having her so close makes focusing on the words more difficult that she would care to acknowledge. It takes everything in her not to reach out and pull the other woman even closer.

“You know Pats, you really have nothing to be jealous of. To tell you the truth, redheads are more my style nowadays.”

All Patsy can do, as Delia leaves the kitchen, is stare after her in confusion. She knows, although she isn’t sure how, that the other woman is smirking to herself, long after her bedroom door clicks closed behind her.


End file.
